you.”
Like that works
. That was the tactic she’d been employing when she went to Colorado seventeen months ago. Show him you don’t care, you can do this alone. After a week of her silence, he’d called. To tell her she could do it alone.
Her cardinal’s song floated through the screen. She kicked off her sandals and joined him outside, leaning against the railing and listening to the river. Peeling paint bit into her forearms. The whole porch needed to be sanded and repainted. Had she bought a money pit? How much could she do herself? And would she know when to say when? She padded across the boards, willing them smooth and glistening white without the effort it would take.
The inside of her forearm prickled. A thick chunk of paint pressed into her flesh. Hunter green, her least favorite color in all the world. She pried it off. It left an imprint. A pink island—Cuba or Jamaica—in a sea of white. Scraping her fingernail across the green, she found burgundy and wondered if the porch was as old as the rest of the house.
It couldn’t be. The trapdoor would have been useless. Inaccessible. Unless… With an agility she didn’t usually possess, she scrambled down the steps. White-painted lattice covered the space between the ground and the floor of the porch. In rough condition, it would have to be removed eventually. Easing to her knees, she stuck her fingers through the holes and yanked on the crisscrossed wood strips. A yard-long panel gave way and she tossed it aside. Flattening onto the grass, she pulled Jake’s flashlight out of her pocket. Contorted leaves and hickory nuts littered the dirt. There was no sign of the trapdoor, and the space wasn’t deep enough for her to squeeze into.
Flicking off the light, she sat on the grass and stared at the square spindles just above her eye level. Functional, not decorative, they carried on the practical theme of the house. Unknowingly constructed over the entrance to a secret, forgotten room.
Or…
Grasping spindles with both hands, she pulled herself up and walked back up the steps. A large black mat, about six feet long, covered the middle of the porch in front of the back door. Emily kicked up the corner, rolled it back with the end of her cane, and sucked in a sudden breath. A paint-filled line ran across a dozen boards. Whirling around, she spotted an identical cut. Ignoring pain, she dropped to her knees. Slipping her fingers under the board at the end of the cut, she lifted. The outlined square wiggled. Years of paint wrinkled in the cracks. With every ounce of strength, she pulled again. A popping, tearing sound accompanied two small rips. She worked her way to a stand and nearly ran into the kitchen for the knife that had sliced lemons just hours ago.
The blade cut through the stretchy, dried paint like butter. Her palms grew damp against the handle. An irrational thought seemed to ascend from the space beneath the newly freed door.
Did you see the ghost yet?
She thought of the imaginary woman, cradling her child in the room below. With a shake of her head, Emily dropped the knife and slid her fingers through a crack. Gripping the end board and holding her breath, she pulled. Hidden hinges resisted, wailing against her effort. Inch by inch, the unwilling mouth opened until, at last, the hinge loosened and the door banged against the house.
But the moment was anticlimactic. Moldy leaves, a plastic straw, and a bottle cap were the archaeological treasures stirred up by the tip of her cane. No handle to a trapdoor, no footprints turned to stone. She needed the shovel from the shed.
Preparing to hoist unladylike to her feet, she drew one knee to her chest. The fingers of her right hand slid over a plank bordering the square hole. Instead of wrapping around the board, her fingers arched around something cylindrical. Lowering her knee, she leaned into the opening.
A short pipe, about a foot long, hung by two hooks.
Like that works
. That was the tactic she’d been employing when she went to Colorado seventeen months ago. Show him you don’t care, you can do this alone. After a week of her silence, he’d called. To tell her she could do it alone.
Her cardinal’s song floated through the screen. She kicked off her sandals and joined him outside, leaning against the railing and listening to the river. Peeling paint bit into her forearms. The whole porch needed to be sanded and repainted. Had she bought a money pit? How much could she do herself? And would she know when to say when? She padded across the boards, willing them smooth and glistening white without the effort it would take.
The inside of her forearm prickled. A thick chunk of paint pressed into her flesh. Hunter green, her least favorite color in all the world. She pried it off. It left an imprint. A pink island—Cuba or Jamaica—in a sea of white. Scraping her fingernail across the green, she found burgundy and wondered if the porch was as old as the rest of the house.
It couldn’t be. The trapdoor would have been useless. Inaccessible. Unless… With an agility she didn’t usually possess, she scrambled down the steps. White-painted lattice covered the space between the ground and the floor of the porch. In rough condition, it would have to be removed eventually. Easing to her knees, she stuck her fingers through the holes and yanked on the crisscrossed wood strips. A yard-long panel gave way and she tossed it aside. Flattening onto the grass, she pulled Jake’s flashlight out of her pocket. Contorted leaves and hickory nuts littered the dirt. There was no sign of the trapdoor, and the space wasn’t deep enough for her to squeeze into.
Flicking off the light, she sat on the grass and stared at the square spindles just above her eye level. Functional, not decorative, they carried on the practical theme of the house. Unknowingly constructed over the entrance to a secret, forgotten room.
Or…
Grasping spindles with both hands, she pulled herself up and walked back up the steps. A large black mat, about six feet long, covered the middle of the porch in front of the back door. Emily kicked up the corner, rolled it back with the end of her cane, and sucked in a sudden breath. A paint-filled line ran across a dozen boards. Whirling around, she spotted an identical cut. Ignoring pain, she dropped to her knees. Slipping her fingers under the board at the end of the cut, she lifted. The outlined square wiggled. Years of paint wrinkled in the cracks. With every ounce of strength, she pulled again. A popping, tearing sound accompanied two small rips. She worked her way to a stand and nearly ran into the kitchen for the knife that had sliced lemons just hours ago.
The blade cut through the stretchy, dried paint like butter. Her palms grew damp against the handle. An irrational thought seemed to ascend from the space beneath the newly freed door.
Did you see the ghost yet?
She thought of the imaginary woman, cradling her child in the room below. With a shake of her head, Emily dropped the knife and slid her fingers through a crack. Gripping the end board and holding her breath, she pulled. Hidden hinges resisted, wailing against her effort. Inch by inch, the unwilling mouth opened until, at last, the hinge loosened and the door banged against the house.
But the moment was anticlimactic. Moldy leaves, a plastic straw, and a bottle cap were the archaeological treasures stirred up by the tip of her cane. No handle to a trapdoor, no footprints turned to stone. She needed the shovel from the shed.
Preparing to hoist unladylike to her feet, she drew one knee to her chest. The fingers of her right hand slid over a plank bordering the square hole. Instead of wrapping around the board, her fingers arched around something cylindrical. Lowering her knee, she leaned into the opening.
A short pipe, about a foot long, hung by two hooks.
Similar Books
